by Diane Farr
Doubtless it was another scheme of Gianetta's to force her unwilling daughter into her own footsteps. But perhaps Clarissa could find a way to foil her mother's plans. Perhaps the man could be reasoned with. He might even take pity on her plight. And even if he did not, surely she could find a way of escape—if only she could get out from under this roof!
Besides, there was always a chance that his intentions were perfectly honorable. She knew nothing about this man, or what he wanted. Why should she suppose the worst? For that matter, she knew very little about her mother. It was possible that Clarissa's pleas and protestations—although they had seemed to have no impact whatsoever at the time—had prevailed, once Mother had had a chance to reflect upon them. Perhaps La Gianetta had struck a bargain with this man to offer her daughter respectable employment. Anything was possible.
"And anything would be preferable to staying here—anything at all!" she whispered. Clarissa took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and resolutely began to pack.
This task did not take long. Her possessions were few, and since from the day she arrived she had desired nothing more than to depart, she had never fully unpacked her trunk. Her throat ached with unshed tears as she gathered her precious trinkets. Here was the pewter thimble Jane Peele had given her, to remember her by. And here, the farewell letter the six youngest schoolgirls had signed. She fought the memories back. She must not think of it. It did no good to think of it.
She was standing before a cracked pier glass, buttoning her redingote, when a timid knock sounded. Marie's muffled voice wafted through the keyhole.
"Mademoiselle? You wish for help with ze packing?"
"No, thank you. I am quite finished," replied Clarissa. A soft exclamation and the rattling of the key heralded the entrance of poor Marie, who sidled nervously in as if expecting to be slapped. Their eyes met in the glass, and Clarissa smiled reassuringly.
"You see?" she said, waving a hand to indicate the single trunk and two bandboxes. "That is everything."
Marie blinked. It was evident that Clarissa's past conduct had led Marie to expect fierce resistance, not this calm complaisance. In proof of this, two burly individuals now stepped through the door. Marie had brought reinforcements. One of the men Clarissa recognized as her mother's footman, but the other appeared to be a hired porter.
"Very good, mademoiselle," stammered Marie. She nodded at the men, and each took a bandbox and one end of the trunk. As they lumbered off, Marie edged toward the door.
"One moment, please!" said Clarissa, turning to face the little servant. Marie gulped, and shrank back toward the wall.
"For heaven's sake, I am not going to hurt you! I only want to know the name of the man downstairs. Do you know his name?"
Marie stared. "But, Mademoiselle, he is Trevor Whitlatch!" she breathed ecstatically.
The name meant nothing to Clarissa. She frowned. "Whitlatch? The Devonshire family?"
Marie shook her head vehemently. "I do not know, Mademoiselle, but ze Monsieur Whitlatch, he is a man très distingué!"
Clarissa raised an eyebrow. "Famous, is he? For what?"
Marie clasped her hands at her thin bosom and broke into an enthusiastic, and extremely idiomatic, stream of French. Clarissa was only able to decipher about every third word, and finally interrupted her. "Thank you, Marie, but I cannot follow what you are saying! Something about India, and ships. Are you telling me this man Whitlatch is a nabob?"
"Nay-bob? I do not know zis word, Mademoiselle. But you understand ze man is rich, yes? Ver-r-r-ry rich! You will live like ze queen, hein?" She rolled her eyes expressively, beaming at Clarissa.
Clarissa's veins turned to ice, and her hands clenched involuntarily. "Dear God," she whispered. "Then it is as I feared."
Marie wrinkled her nose. "Please?"
Clarissa took a deep breath. "Marie, you must tell me what you know about this man, and why he is taking me away." She saw the alarm return to Marie's features, and smiled encouragingly. "Come, I won't blame you! I know you are only the messenger."
Marie gulped, and began twisting her apron. "Oh, mademoiselle, I do not know all, me! But Monsieur Whitlatch, today he is having ze contretemps with Madame, non? And Madame, she gives him you. Now he is happy, and ze contretemps, it is at an end."
Clarissa's eyes widened in horror. "She gave me to him? To end a dispute?"
Marie nodded vigorously. "But yes!" she said, with a sigh of envy. "You will go with him, and you will live like ze queen!" She then bobbed a quick curtsey, and slipped out the door.
Marie's air of eager congratulation was the most shocking thing of all. How could anyone find such a bargain anything but reprehensible? Fear stole along her nerves. Given to the man! Heaven defend her! All her life she had tried to live respectably, had tried to banish all traces of her mother's influence, had tried to deny, by the sheer force of her own virtue, whose daughter she was—only to fall into her mother's clutches and be ruined! Oh, it was dreadful! She dared not think what the stranger might require of her.
Four years ago, when she was sixteen, the music master had tried to kiss her. Miss Bathurst had been very angry—bless her!—and the music master had lost his situation. But Clarissa remembered the scene all too clearly. It had been most unpleasant. And now this man, this Trevor Whitlatch, would doubtless try the same thing. Men enjoyed taking such liberties, one was told. She had even heard other girls at the Academy whisper that kisses were only the beginning of what a man could do to a girl. She had heard there were other, more dreadful, intimacies than the pressing together of two mouths. But Clarissa's imagination failed her when she tried to think beyond kisses. A kiss, in her experience, was invasion enough. She shuddered.
Well. There was no help for it. She could not stay locked in her mother's attic forever. A dangerous path of escape was set before her, but she would take it. At least until another path presented itself. And whatever happened, she vowed, she would never return to this house.
She firmly tied the strings of her best bonnet beneath her chin. It had a deep poke front, so if Mr. Whitlatch had any immediate intention of kissing her it would be difficult for him to execute his plan. She began to pull on her gloves, then hesitated.
Mr. Whitlatch had appeared to be a man of some strength.
Tossing the gloves aside, she rummaged hastily through a drawer and, with a triumphant little smile, unearthed a long and wicked-looking hat pin. Standing before the mirror, she pushed the hat pin carefully through the wide satin ribbon on the top of her bonnet. She patted it to reassure herself of its exact location.
"En garde, Monsieur!" Clarissa whispered to her reflection. Then she picked up her gloves and walked downstairs.
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